From a distance, you might think they were cowboys on the trail, but these four figures had no cattle. Their fire cut a spark against the night-darkened mesas, the glow from the stars was distant and cold. If you were to behold their faces up close, you would see three of them were wrought with anguish and strife.
“I used to be the boss,” the first one said. “Grammar Nazi Prime, you know? I would drench budding writers in red-ink corrections, then revel in their beaten demeanors. That all changed when Kent came along.”
“Goddamn Kent fucking Wayne,” Grammar Nazi Secondary agreed morosely. “Every time I pissed on a story, Kent would materialize and dick-slap me senseless.”
“Thank God he’s dead.” Grammar Nazi Tertiary stared blankly into the flames. “I still bear his mark.” Sure enough, there was a giant mushroom-stamp on the right side of his face. It ran from his forehead to his nonexistent jawline.
“What about you, stranger?” Grammar Nazi Prime turned to their fourth: a woman whose face was hidden by the brim of her hat. “What’s your relation to that low-down Man Whore?”
She spooned some beans into her mouth, chewing appreciatively as the silence thickened.
Then she responded with a dark chuckle. “Funny you should ask. While you fuckbags had your panties in a twist, me and Kent got along just fine.”
Secondary and Tertiary gripped their six-guns. “Best move along,” Grammar Nazi Prime said tersely. “We don’t take kindly to—”
She chuckled again, took off her hat, and met their eyes. The trio of Grammar Nazis stiffened in shock.
“Holy SHIT!” Tertiary yelled. “It’s Martha fucking Stewart—Kent’s best client from his Man Whore side-business! Smoke her a—”
Before he could say “ass,” Martha whipped out her eReader and opened it to a Kent Wayne novels, activating its mind-bending reality distortion powers. Magic flash.
Kent’s disembodied wiener appeared in her hand. With a slash of her arm, she hit all three at once, dislocating Prime’s jaw, fracturing Secondary’s temple, and breaking Tertiary’s leg right above the knee.
“Fuck this!” Secondary screamed. He took off into the night with Grammar Nazi Prime.
Martha cracked the penis-whip again, binding Tertiary head to toe in veiny coils. She lifted him up off the ground as he winced and yelped, squeezed agonizingly tight by Kent’s cheese-fouled meat.
“No, please!” he gasped. “Don’t—”
The whip clenched in decisive twitches, breaking damn near every bone in Tertiary’s body. He let out a scream which turned into a blood-muffled gargle. She released the dying, mangled Grammar Nazi; he puddled onto the ground like Peter Griffin after one of his hilarious-yet-cringey accidents where all of his joints are bent the wrong way.
As the other two Grammar Nazis sprinted like hell, Martha muttered, “Oh no you don’t,” and cast the dick-whip in a long-running slash, gobbling the distance in a flash of shiny-smooth glans.
The whip wove through the air in expansive twists, then it shot through Secondary’s mouth, out the back of his skull, and did the same with Grammar Nazi Prime. They stopped dead in their tracks, eyes wide in surprise and terror, struggling to process their oncoming death due to the wiener in their noggins.
“Fatality, bitch.” Martha giggled as she dragged them back to the fire. “I know just the thing to go with Grammar Nazi skulls—a bit of cardamom with saffron and thyme. HEH heh heh!”
Kent Wayne wins again!
Have you passed on before your Grammar Nazi foes? Never fear! Summon a cannibalistic, cartoonishly homicidal Martha Stewart and turn them all into a gourmet dish!
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